


A life for a life

by aflyingcontradiction



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Science Fiction, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22925671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aflyingcontradiction/pseuds/aflyingcontradiction
Summary: A life for a life - that is the deal. And neither woman can help but stare in avid curiosity at her counterpart.----------Sometimes one person's utopia is another's nightmare.





	A life for a life

The airlock cycles, the doors slide open and the two women find themselves facing each other across the docking bridge. A life for a life - that is the deal. And neither can help but stare in avid curiosity at her counterpart.

* * *

The other woman has no idea what she’s getting herself into. It’s obvious just from looking at her. The hair, for one. She’s never seen hair like that before - long and blonde and glossy, each strand falling perfectly, framing her face. Beautiful. And completely impractical. Does she even realise they’ll make her chop that off just below her ears the moment she steps through that door? If she does, her expression doesn’t show it. Her face is set in utter determination. Her hands are fidgeting, though, pulling at the sleeves of her gorgeous velvety blue top. 

She wonders if the other woman browsed for hours to find that outfit she’s wearing right now. That’s what she plans to do, when she steps through that door. All those colours. All those choices. Hers to make and hers alone. She’ll buy a hundred outfits in all the colours of the rainbow and she’ll be beautiful and nobody will judge her and call her frivolous. Does the other woman even realise what freedom she’s about to give up?

The other woman’s fingers are still pulling at the sleeves of her shirt. She’ll fray the fabric if she’s not careful. She wouldn’t be doing that if she’d ever been assigned a job in the sewing room, fixing up other people’s clothes. She’d know frayed fabric is a pain in the ass to deal with. She wonders what kinds of jobs the other woman has been assigned in her life, then remembers that’s not how it works for them. They get to pick. She’ll get to pick! Maybe she’ll be a waitress, serving smiling customers mouth-watering meals. Or maybe she’ll just get a nice cushy office job where she can sit on her ass all day. Or maybe she’ll take one of the other millions of jobs out there. A new one every year, if she wants! She can’t wait to see what the future will hold.

The other woman takes a deep breath and briefly glances over her shoulder. Oh God, no, what if she gets cold feet now and backs out at the last minute? But a second later she turns back toward her counterpart and squares her shoulders.

Maybe the other woman is also leaving someone behind. She, herself, has to after all. They all cried when she told them of her decision. They tried to change her mind. They reminisced about nights spent awake, laughing until exhaustion made them stop, then starting all over again when they looked at each other’s faces. About other nights spent crying in each other’s arms. About days spent playing in the woods when they were children. About secrets confessed in quiet corners and ceremonies shared before a cheering audience. Then she cried too. She’s going to miss all of them. They won’t be able to contact her after she has left - she’ll be dead to them, unless they decide to follow her. But she has to do this; if she spends one more week living like this she’ll be dead for real. 

She’ll find new friends eventually. And she’ll have fun with them - they’ll go out together and they’ll party till dawn and she’ll fall into bed happy and exhausted and sleep in as long as she wants and nobody and nothing is going to make her get up before she is rested. It’s going to be amazing.

* * *

The other woman has no idea what she’s getting herself into. It’s written all over her face. Just look at her hair! Mousy, chopped short, eminently practical. Timid. A pushover. The world she’s longing for is going to eat her alive! But she doesn’t have a clue what it’s like, does she? How can she? She looks back over her shoulder like something is chasing her, but when she turns back around and shows her face, there’s a shy smile on her lips. 

Her hands move down to pat the wrinkles out of her shirt. It’s beige. Nondescript. Almost looks like part of a uniform. Do they wear uniforms over there? It must be amazing to grab your clothes and get dressed in the morning - just like that. The hours she has wasted in her life worrying if one outfit is too flashy or another too dull and will people think she’s ditzy or out of touch if she wears this skirt with that top and can she really afford to try out that new hairstyle or will that get her too much attention of the wrong kind - only to find herself going out looking nothing like herself and hating every part of her body and what’s wrapped around it. Does the other woman even realise what freedom she’s about to give up?

The other woman wraps her arms around her body, maybe because she’s nervous, maybe just because it’s freezing in here. She looks buff, like she has worked hard in her life. Worked hard for the good of the community. 

If they expect her to do physical labour, it’s going to be a struggle - she has only ever had office jobs, but she’ll deal somehow. As long as she never has to take another job helping a manager look good so that his manager can look good so that the company can look good so that their share price rises while they’re selling people trash nobody needs and nobody wanted before the company came along to convince them they did. It’s all so pointless. She’ll clean the fucking sewers with a smile on her face and a song on her lips if that’s what it takes. Just as long as she never has to end another day wondering whether the work she has slaved and panicked and sweated and cried over actually made a real difference to the life of a single human being - if her entire existence actually made a real difference to the life of a single human being.

Sure didn’t seem like it when she announced her decision to her friends. Of course, a few of them made some half-assed attempts to talk her out of it. Called her crazy. One told her she was a fascist sympathiser and blocked her on all channels. A bit performative, really, given that in a few seconds, she’ll be well out of their reach anyway. She’ll be dead to them. Not that it will make much difference, since most of them wouldn’t notice if she were dead for real.

She’ll find new friends eventually. Real ones. Or maybe she won’t, comrades are fine, too. As long as there’s someone to force her miserable ass out of bed in the morning when she can’t find the strength to face the day in her own mind. It’ll be a good life.

* * *

The two women walk toward each other. As they draw level, they briefly turn to face their counterparts. Both of them whisper “Good luck”. Both of them refrain with some difficulty from “You’re going to need it”. Then they walk on, each toward her own future, both wondering what kind of idiot would willingly trade paradise for hell.


End file.
